


Lockout

by Elizabeth Tudor (Liz_Tudor)



Category: Locke & Key
Genre: ABSOLUTELY NO CHILD ABUSE, As the Lockes step into their legacy as supernatural badasses, But focuses largely on Duncan and Tyler, Demonic Possession, Dodge is one sick bastard, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Fluff, Eventual recovery, F/M, Family Reconciliation, Family in general, First few chapters are DARK, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mostly Duncan abuse actually, Nice characters should be given hot chocolate and kept away from me, Non-Explicit Sex, Recovery/after-effects, Suicidal Thoughts, The Lockes learn to use the keys, Unfortunately all within the realm of canon, but it does get better, finale AU, i'm a sadist, non-explicit violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 18:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11469624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_Tudor/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Tudor
Summary: Tyler turned the alpha key just a little too early...Scot was just a little too slow...and everything fell apart. A fairly dark 'what if?' that pits the remnants of the Locke family, outmatched and outnumbered, against Dodge's vision of a world in flames. Too bad the only people who might be able to stop it are a teen who's had his brain emptied out and an art teacher who's only starting to remember the secrets of Keyhouse... Starts dark, eventual recovery and fluff. Once they get this demon infestation sorted out, Locke family chaos ensues.





	1. Gone Wrong

**_A/N:_ ** _Next to Bode, Duncan Locke is the sweetest, fluffiest cinnamon roll in the Locke & Key 'verse, and he deserves absolutely all the happiness he can be given. This means, of course, that I have to abuse him endlessly._

**_Warnings for non-explicit rape, violence, homophobia, suicidal ideation, minor body horror, and extremely unwilling semi-incest due to possession - all pretty canon, the demon is one sick bastard. The aftereffects and recovery process will also be shown._ **

_The ending of Locke & Key was spectacular, don't get me wrong, but it left open several things that I would've liked to have seen addressed. So here's my what-if, chancing a look at what might have happened if Tyler turned the alpha key just a little too early, if Jackie had been a little bit faster, if the Lockes were a little bit less lucky. Duncan has a starring role, as he's my favorite character, but this is an ensemble piece, and you can look forward to plenty of antics from the full Locke family - just as soon as they get this demon infestation sorted out..._

 

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"Let go of me, you fucking retard! What are you **doing**?"

 

"Making you go away."

 

Rufus was only steps from the wellhouse, the Not-Bode _thing_ struggling in his arms, when Jackie knocked him off his feet, a blur of feathers and mocking laughter and well-toned muscle. _The angel key_ , Duncan thought, and a heartbeat later, couldn't remember why. It was over before he could reach them, the angel-demon-girl pinning the boy while Not-Bode stepped away, laughing, high and merciless.

 

"Sorry, mate," Scot gasped, the metal beginning to blossom from his chest in grotesque spikes. "Couldn't...couldn't hold 'er...couldn't _see_ 'her..."

 

"NO!" Tyler bellowed, lunging for what had once been his little brother, but Brinker emerged with the shadow crown, and Duncan felt the shadows catch hold of him as tightly as the drowning wave of despair, both pulling him down.

 

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It had been eleven days since prom night, joking with his nephew, rebuilding the Charger, battling shadows. For Duncan Locke, it had been eleven days spent in the mouth of hell.

 

"I'll have him working the forge until he drops dead of starvation," Not-Bode had planned, and Dunk wished to any god that might still be listening that he had kept his word. What the demon child had come up with instead was worse.

 

Kinsey and Jamal had emerged from the Drowning Cave possessed by the Children of Leng, shoved through the door in all the confusion. Tyler and Nina had had the contents of their heads emptied into tightly sealed jars, their memories screaming as they were locked away, and a piece of the demon's will inserted into their skulls instead. The two of them shambled around the grounds now with the rest of the high schoolers, blank-eyed, doing whatever Not-Bode or any of the other demon hybrids wanted of them. Fetching and carrying. Slowly rebuilding the fire-ravaged mansion. Licking the boots of anyone who thought it funny to ask. Lying back and getting fucked, staring blankly at the ash-grey sky. Duncan still envied their fate.

 

It was evening. All day, his only memories had been of metalworking, with some _thing_ compelling him to follow the steps he'd learned and the commands Not-Bode had given, twitching his muscles into cramping spasms whenever he tried, faintly, to resist. He knew, disinterestedly, that the memories he'd been allowed to retain, of hours in the forge and foundry, had emotions connected to them, were in some way a part of a larger him. In the absence of any other framework to place them in though, he could get nothing from them but the knowledge of how to carve molds and melt and cast iron, with the dark, alien thing in his head forcing him to use that knowledge any way Not-Bode wished, puppeting him along, moving his wasted body any way it pleased.

 

Then the sun disappeared below the horizon, and Ty, blank-eyed, brain-cleaned Ty, had returned with the head key and removed even those memories, leaving him motionless and empty as a drum.

 

Duncan felt, distantly, a cool breeze touch the inside of his skull. A moment later, his head felt full to bursting, pounding with thirst and migraine as his memories were emptied back into his head all at once. All the pain, exhaustion, hunger, parching thirst, aching grief he hadn't felt all day snapped back into place at once, as he finally, finally regained full control of his body. He groaned, eyes rolling back, and only the manacles tethering him to the forge kept him from collapsing.

 

"Kill me," he rasped, when he could finally breathe again.

 

"Don't tempt me," the Not-Bode snarled. "One stinking key every other day. Only five new keys and one lock since I chained you to this stinking foundry. Not. Fucking. Good enough. At this rate it'll be weeks before I have the power to leave this fucking island and take over the rest of this stupid planet."

 

"So kill me," Dunk rasped again, shutting his eyes against the dim light. "If I'm so totally useless, why keep me?"

 

"Who said you were _totally_ useless?" Not-Bode's voice held a hint of laughter now, and Duncan tensed, his wasted muscles shaking. That was never, never a good thing. "You can't earn your keep by making the keys as fast as I want them, you earn your keep some other way, and you know how much my family likes fucking humans, especially a pretty little fag like you. Oops," he laughed, silvery child's voice glittering with malice. "I mean, you know how much _your_ family likes fucking pretty little fags like you. Oh, Kinsey!" he called, voice brimming with false cheer. "Jamal! Tasha! The evening's festivities are about to begin!"

 

Duncan kept his eyes clenched shut as he felt unnaturally strong  hands close around his ankles, dragging him face-down across the filthy gravel of the foundry until the shackles connecting his wrists to the forge were pulled taut, collar tight around his throat. Mocking comments began as more hands pulled his ratty brown pants down his legs and forced his ankles wide apart, and he wished he could close his ears as well. Bad enough that the demons loved the pleasures of the flesh, feasting and fucking, and the idea of consent was irrelevant enough to be laughable. Bad enough without hearing the abuse and moans of pleasure from Kinsey's mouth too, from his precious niece, who was no longer in control of her own body. Only of his. Fingers, forcing him open, digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises, and he bit his lip, trying not to scream.

 

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Hours later, Not-Bode's new family had tired of their usual games of 'rape the human, hurt the human,' and left Duncan to curl up by the forge, fetters clinking. They'd dragged him here and chained him here the night everything had gone wrong, and he hadn't moved since. Every daybreak, they sent one of their zombies, usually Ty, to open up his head and dump its contents into a jar, replacing _him_ with the few handpicked memories of metalsmithing and a piece of Not-Bode's will to keep him in check, leaving him a spectator in his own body as a the hellish parasite puppeteered him around, carving and casting the keys to begin their world domination. Not-Bode never let him near whispering iron unless he was completely under the demon's control, fearing what keys he might make if he was allowed to work freely. They needed his skill at metalworking, but couldn't risk him acting against them.

 

Not-Bode had certainly intended to keep him working the forge until he collapsed...but that had turned out to be just two and a half days in, with only two new keys made. The demon had underestimated just how quickly human bodies broke down without water or sleep, so, reluctantly, he'd begun working Duncan only during the day.

 

Every evening, they dumped his memories back into his head, just in time to play. They hadn't the first few nights, but Not-Bode had quickly decided that if Dunk wasn't going to be useful at night, he wanted a more responsive toy. The zombie-like slaves they kept around were good for quick orgasms, but Not-Bode was a sadist, and he liked hearing Duncan scream as they burned him and sliced him and fucked him.

 

The demon remembered Duncan from childhood, had developed a particularly awful, brutalizing interest in him that he only faintly understood. His head fascinated Not-Bode; the fact that he thought in color, that even as an adult he could recognize magic, even if he didn't remember it. Although that was changing. One of the very few good things, Duncan reflected wryly, about having his head pried open day after day was that it had torn down the barriers erected when he turned eighteen. It was impossible to destroy memories by magic, so the Riffel Rule had screened them, but that screen had been ripped to shreds around the third or fourth time zombie-Ty had used an ice cream scooper to pull out the last of his memories, prior to another day of toiling over the forge.

 

They hadn't given him any water today, he realized, stretching his legs out to try and find a position that didn't hurt. Or food. Not that it was worth looking forward to, what they gave him was usually barely edible, and stank of urine or putrefaction or worse, but he hoped they hadn't forgotten Rufus too.

 

The kid, Ellie's son, was stuck chest-deep in one of the flooded caves, mocked and occasionally thrown scraps of trash by the demons, but at the very least, the creatures had decided he wasn't pretty enough to be worth fucking, not when there were so many other, shinier toys around.  Duncan shuddered. Small mercies. The kid had been spared that, at least.

 

Sleep was useless, he finally decided miserably. Everything hurt, from the soles of his bare feet to his scalp, aching from the demons yanking on his hair. Not-Bode had opened several deep gashes in his back a few days ago, angry at the delay in a key he wanted, and any way Duncan tried to sleep, he was either going to hurt his flayed back or his bruised ribs. His best bet was probably just to huddle up by the warm brick belly of the foundry furnace; the night air was rapidly cooling, and, dressed in only the bloodstained pants he'd been wearing on prom night, it was his only real chance at staying warm.

 

There was a soft noise, a rustling of gravel pebbles sliding over each other, and Duncan instantly tensed, eyes scanning the grayscape of the barn foundry that had been his refuge and was now his nightmare. Usually, when the demon hybrids were tired of him, they left him alone for the night. Usually. It was always possible that one of them had decided they wanted a second or third round...

 

Instead he saw two tiny figures, as tall as his hand, scrambling across the gravel. They looked like the boy, Zack, the one Kinsey had been dating, who had killed Ellie Whedon. Duncan watched them warily. Where the hell had they come from...?

 

"Found you," one of them panted, coming to a rest by his bare feet. "Finally."

 

"Do I...know you?" Dunk asked cautiously. And then, as the pieces clicked... "Are you _my_ memories?"

 

"Yeah. Your memories of Lucas Caravaggio," one of them told him, sibilant and thin. "Dodge. The boy the demon lived in before Bode. He was your brother's friend, and he pulled us out of your head to stop you from putting the pieces together. He was the one that scared Brian."

 

"How did you find me again?" Duncan murmured, careful to keep his voice low. He knew, better than most, that it was impossible to destroy memories or ideas by using the head key, but as small and helpless as they were, how had they escaped?

 

"He flushed us," the other memory piped in. "Right into the ocean. We just had to follow the coast back to you. Memories want to get back to their thinker."

 

Duncan paused, taking this in, and considering his next move. He'd just been handed a couple of pawns in an impossible, over-matched chess game, the only pieces he had left to play, and he'd better be cautious in deciding where to put them. If they returned to his head, he'd have new information, but they'd just be emptied out again at daybreak, and much good that would do him. While they were still out of his head though, he could send them somewhere else, somewhere they could be useful. They might be memories of Lucas, but they were _his_ memories of Lucas, steeped in his feelings and ideas and views, and they'd carry this conversation with them too now, along with anything else he chose to tell them. Where he could he send them, that they might have a chance?

 

Kinsey wasn't an option. Her body was inhabited by a demon, sending her memories would do nothing but give the demon more information.  Bode was clearly out. That left Brian, and Tyler and Nina, who were still human, but had had their heads scraped as clean as emptied trashcans.

 

Any fleeting thoughts of sending the memories to Brian were quickly scrapped. Duncan's only consolation in all of this was that his boyfriend was safe in Provincetown, away from this desolation. Even if the memories could make it back, he wouldn't draw Brian into this for anything, not if there was a chance of keeping him safe.

 

Nina, he considered briefly...but she was an adult, and would have a hard time recognizing magic, or taking action when faced with it. And then something else caught his memory.

 

Tyler, asking to be taught metal casting. Ty, pliers in his hand, bent over something at the forge while the shadows attacked. His nephew, Duncan thought dawningly, knew more about this than he had let on. Well, time to see if his memory could be jogged. Dunk was reluctant to trust anyone now - the memory of Not-Bode, hissing atrocities in that sweet seven-year-old voice, lurked just behind his eyelids - but Ty was the best of his very limited options, shackled as he was to the forge.

 

"Go to Tyler," he murmured to the memories, keeping his eyes fixed on the barn door. "He's had all of his memories removed, and that...thing...dressed as Bode put a little piece of himself in there, to keep him in line. Avoid that thing, tie it up or something if you can, and try to wake Tyler up. Tell him everything you can, and see if you can find any of _his_ memories around the grounds, the Not-Bode put 'em in a jar somewhere."

 

The two tiny figures, slightly larger now with the new information they carried, nodded, and hurried towards the wooden door, fleet and silent as mice. Duncan watched them go, his green eyes solemn.

 

A week and a half, and this was the best chance he'd had, the only ray of hope he'd seen so far. It was a lot to lay on the shoulders of two hazy memories and his brainwashed nephew, but he couldn't see any alternative. If there was anyone who stood a chance of being able to do something, it was probably Tyler.

 

And if he was wrong about his nephew, Duncan thought grimly, curling up as best he could on the filthy gravel, if he couldn't trust even Ty and lost this chance and spent the rest of his limited life as a punching bag by night and a blank-eyed puppet by day...well, he'd figure something out. Looping the chain attached to his collar around the foundry equipment and leaning forward until it cut off his air...rubbing the iron cuffs back and forth until they ripped open his wrists...hell, sticking his head in the next crucible of molten iron. There were always options, if you were desperate enough.


	2. Gathering Forces

**_A/N:_ ** _**Warnings for some torture, referenced rape, and memories being involuntarily removed.** Duncan starts to put a plan together, and Tyler's head gets a little crowded._

 

_So the exact timing of Locke & Key is a little ambiguous. The comics give several trackable sources (current movies, political events, referencing 1988 as being twenty years ago, etc.) that point, variably, to either 2008 or 2009. Additionally, everyone seems to agree that 1988 was twenty years ago (give or take), but a lot of the characters seem a little vague on how old Duncan was then; Dodge says several times that he was eight, Kim in the Clockworks says nine. For purposes of this story, I'm figuring Rendall's death occurs in summer 2008, and prom night, and this fic, happens in summer 2009. I'm going with Duncan being currently twenty-nine._

_I'm also a little iffy on the Riffel Rule. It says that you lose all memory of the key magic when you become an adult, but Duncan specifically says Tyler is eighteen, and Ty clearly remembers how the keys work. Also, the spell is bound into the main door of Keyhouse...but Keyhouse is burned down now. Additionally, many adults, like the lighthouse keepers, didn't recognize magic unless it was specifically pointed out to them by someone under eighteen, even though they couldn't have passed through the door of Keyhouse, and wouldn't be covered under the Riffel Rule. Coupled with Kinsey's comments about how it's impossible to completely destroy ideas and memories, I'm going to be playing a little bit fast and loose with the strictures on adult magic usage._

_First chapter was about as dark as it gets - there'll be one chapter later on that gets pretty rough, but from here on out, it's lots of plotting and taking back Lovecraft._

 

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Duncan studied Tyler carefully the next morning, hoping desperately to find some spark in his nephew's dead eyes, anything to indicate that there might still be a person in there, but there was nothing. His shoulders slumped, and a minute later he lost the ability to think about it, or anything besides serving Not-Bode.

 

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It wasn't until much later that night, when his mind had been put back and Not-Bode's creatures had finally tired of all the fun they could have by breaking his mind and his body, that he found out what had become of his memories. He was on the brink of dozing off, miserable and sore, when he heard a rustling and saw not two memories by his feet, but four. Only one was his, he noticed, blinking awake. The other three were a young black girl, one he knew, or used to know...

 

"Erin," he said finally, and the girl nodded. "That's whose memories you are." His brother's friend, the girl who'd wound up in the asylum. Dodge must have emptied her head out too. At the thought that she'd been there for twenty years, he felt faintly sick. He couldn't let that happen to his family.

 

Keeping his voice low, he questioned the memories, and filled them in on what was happening now. It was from his remaining memory that he learned that the piece of demon in Tyler's head was a big one, too large and too tough for only two positive memories to handle. Duncan _almost_ smiled at that. The demon must have not wanted to take any chances with Tyler. Smart, if regrettable. One of the memories had stayed behind to keep an eye on it and Tyler, while the remaining one waited to report to Duncan. It was while waiting that it had run across three of Erin's memories, emerging from the Drowning Caves, where Dodge must have left them so many years before.

 

"Will you help us deal with this thing?" Duncan asked the memories quietly. He hadn't known Erin well, but he had a hard time picturing her siding with a demon, and as a person went, their thoughts went too, so he was hopeful. "It's the same monster that emptied Erin's brain out, only now it's taken over Bode, my nephew. It wants to take over everywhere, just as soon as it can force me to finish making keys."

 

"We're in," the memories of Erin whispered, in voices like leaves in the breeze. "Just tell us what to do."

 

Duncan paused at that. Once the memories entered a head, they couldn't leave again without being removed by the head key. If he could get enough strong, positive memories into Tyler's head, even if they weren't his own memories, could they displace the demon? "Did my other memory say how big the piece of demon was?" he asked finally. "With enough of you, do you think you could stop it?"

 

The memories glanced at each other. "With enough, maybe," his remaining memory said finally. "Probably take more of us than we have here. At least a dozen, maybe more." Dunk nodded.

 

"There must be more of Erin's memories in the Drowning Caves," he told them, his voice low. "And now that the caves are drained, maybe you can get them out. Go find as many of them as you can. If you can take down that demon and tell Tyler what you know, we might have a chance." The memories nodded, and his miniature soldiers scurried away, keeping to the (thankfully non-living) shadows. Duncan settled back against the forge furnace. God, he hoped this worked.

 

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It was two more days of labor and two more evenings of torture before the memories returned, but when they came, they came en masse. His own memory, and at least ten or eleven of Erin's, clustered around his feet. Looking at them, Duncan allowed himself to hope, for the first time, that this insane plan might actually work.

 

"There are at least ten more of Erin's memories down there, that we haven't gotten to," his memory of high school age Luke told him. "Probably more. Probably all of them. Most of them were pretty buried, but there's four more we think we can get out."

 

"Free as many as you can tonight," Duncan told them grimly. _Might as well pull the trigger on this psychotic crusade_. "Tomorrow night, I want everyone you have to get into Tyler's head and take down that _thing_ inside him."

 

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The combined memories had managed to free three more of Erin's that day, and it was a task force of fifteen that woke Duncan the next night. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, chains clinking, he nodded.

 

"Good," he murmured. "Wait a few more hours, until all of the demons are asleep, and then get into Tyler's head. First thing is stop that thing from controlling him, and then try and get him to come see me. If you can, tell him that something's not right, that these things are bad and we need to stop 'em. And try to tell him that I'm a friend," he added, as an afterthought. The memories nodded, their tiny faces set.

 

They waited in the foundry with him until the moon had begun its descent and Duncan thought ( _hoped_ ) the demons would have fallen asleep. Living in human bodies, bound by human circadian rhythms, they usually defaulted to sleep around three or four a.m., and though the shadows stood guard all night, Duncan hoped the memories would be small enough to escape their notice. Finally, he decided the time was right, and watched the tiny figures sneak away in twos and threes, heart pounding in his chest.

 

It was an hour later that Tyler staggered into the foundry, bouncing off workbenches and tool chests, raising a racket in the still night.

 

"Tyler!" Duncan gasped, scrambling upright. His nephew's eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, his face twisted into an expression of bewilderment.

 

"Who...are you?" Tyler asked finally, forming the words like he didn't quite understand how to work his mouth. "Some parts of me are telling me you're my crush's little brother, and some are telling me you're...me? Aren't you supposed to be younger? Who the shitting hell _are_ you?"

 

"Doesn't matter," Duncan whispered, thinking fast. _They did it, they fucking did it!_ "I'm a friend, and I want to try and fix what's wrong with your head. What's wrong with everything. Dodge has me chained up here though," he continued, gesturing at the shackles that bound him to the forge, "so I need your help."

 

At the name Dodge, Tyler twitched, bristled. "That...thing," he finally slurred out. "I remember him trying to kill Rendall, taking me down to the caves 'cause he thought I had the key... Did...did he do something to my head?"

 

"Yes. To mine too, though not as bad yours. That's why he chained me up," Duncan whispered. "Will you help me stop him?" He could see the wavering hesitation on his nephew's face, and decided to take a gamble. Hopefully there was enough of Erin in there... "Rendall needs our help," he added. "This is the only way we can help him." Immediately, Tyler's face set, and he nodded. Duncan felt a twinge of guilt stab through his empty stomach, but pushed it aside. He'd apologize to Tyler later, if and when the kid's own mind was back in his head.

 

"Okay, then here's what I need you to do..."

 

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Daybreak was fast approaching, and Duncan cast around for a place to hide his tools while Tyler went to get the head key from Not-Bode. Once Ty emptied his head into one jar and filled it from another, he couldn't be working against Not-Bode, or the piece of demon in his head would know, and would destroy everything he'd done so far. Finally, he buried the small block of wood and the tools in the gravel beside the forge, hoping desperately that they'd stay buried until he got his mind back tonight. Ty returned, and watched him dully. They'd spent the rest of the night talking, while Duncan carved and told him what he could about their situation, the iron whispering at the back of his mind, as it always was these days.

 

"You remember what we talked about," he whispered. "Dodge - remember he looks like a little kid now - can't suspect that you've got part of your mind back. If he does, he'll open up your head and empty it out again, and we'll have lost our chance to help Rendall. Do you remember what Dodge has had you doing, the past few weeks?" At Tyler's hesitant shake of the head, he sighed.  "They've been using you as...a slave, basically. Try to stay out of the way as much as you can. Any orders they give you, follow them. No protests, don't even look interested. They _canno_ t know you're thinking for yourself now." This was the riskiest part of his plan, but necessary. With any luck at all, hopefully it would only be for one day more, and they'd have Ty's memories back. That was the first step.

 

At Duncan's instructions, Ty carried the rest of his tools and the lumps of whispering iron back to the small foundry from the shelves along the walls. Not-Bode had them removed at night, to keep Duncan from working without the instruction of his resident shoulder demon, though it didn't stop him from hearing the metal's susurrus murmur. Finally, everything was set for him to begin working on whatever monstrosity Not-Bode wanted, and Dunk steeled himself.

 

"Okay," he whispered. "Empty my head out. Just like usual." Seeing his nephew hesitate, he added, "Dodge is usually here in the evening, and he'll notice if there's nothing to put back in my head after you've taken stuff out. We have to. Hopefully it's just for one more day. Hopefully." The words stuck in his throat, _asking_ to have his mind ripped out, but goddammit it was the only way. He'd need to have some of his mind back tomorrow, and he couldn't risk it two days in a row, there was just too much chance that Not-Bode would notice something was off. Ty swallowed, but nodded. Breathing hard, Duncan knelt, felt his nephew's hand gentle between his shoulder blades, leaning him forward...then the top of his head swung open, and he was blank.

 

...

 

...

 

...

 

Casting today. Finished carving yesterday. New key, to freeze someone in place. Turn it and they went rigid. Handle was a tiny figure of a frozen human. _Magnificent._ Place the iron in the crucible. Scrap fell. _Get on with it._ Iron whispering. Always whispering. Can't hear the words, but still understand the meaning. _Family. It knows what's coming._ Set crucible on the forge furnace. Wait for it to melt. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Red. Softening. Melting. Hot. Sparks. Find the tongs.

 

Melted iron. Two steps to the mold. Chains. Stumble. Burns. Hurts. _Yesss._ Wooden mold. Single casting only. _Unique keys_. Pour the iron. _This key. This key will freeze people in place. You insert it into their chest and turn, and they go stiff. They can see and hear, but they can't so much as blink. More reliable than the music box. Wonderful._ Key poured. Metal glowing. Wait for it to cool. Someone coming. Blank-eyed teenager. Leaving plate. Leaving cup. Meat on the plate. Raw. Rotten. _Pick it up and eat it._ Gagging. Maggots. _Eat it, you useless fuck._ Choking. Swallow. Tear another bite off. Pick up cup. Sip. Throat. Water burns. _Keep drinking._ Gagging. Chewing. Throat burns. Finished. Plate empty, cup empty. Still thirsty. Waiting. Waiting. Someone coming. Cruel-eyed teenager. _Ignore her. You're working, they won't touch you until tonight. After that, of course, you're a piece of meat._ Waiting. Waiting. Key cooled.

 

Screwdriver. Small, flathead. Useful for - _this. Keep going._ Remove key from mold. Good casting. Clean, clear shape. Some burrs around the edges. Some splinters stuck to the steel. Just like the first time. In Mr. Sandusky's clas _-cut the trips down memory lane, you stupid fag._ Sandpaper. Tin snips. Clean up the edges. Smooth it out. Clip off the burrs. Cut thumb. Hurts, but not bad. Flatten the sharp edges with sandpaper. Keep finishing. Clean up details with a tiny jewelry file. Finer grade of sandpaper. Burnish the iron until it glows. Key smooth. Grip it with tongs. Heat it in the furnace. Rub on beeswax. Wax melts. Coats key, seals metal. Final coat. Finished. Beautiful. _Not bad._ An hour left of the day. Pick up new block of wood. Pick up knife. Pick up dremel tool. Begin carving. New design. New key. _And I'm out. It's just carving out the design the Master gave you. So easy a retard could do it, even that Whedon kid couldn't fuck it up too bad._ Smooth, careful curls of wood. Cutting out body of the key. Deep, even channel for the shaft. Light going. Lean closer to see...

 

Pain. Fear pain heaving stomach exhaustion panic burning throat pain aching wrists pain fear fear pain fear fear fear fearfearfearfearfearfearfearfearfear...

 

He came back to himself, blinking, shaking as though he'd just run a marathon, the new burn on his calf smarting in the cool evening air. Not-Bode was standing there grinning, holding the freezing key he'd finished that day, Not-Kinsey and a few other chosen teenagers behind him, and Tyler lurking behind them, holding the jar with his memories of metalworking and the fragment of demonic will.

 

"You did good, Uncle Dunk," Not-Kinsey cooed, pushing him supine and straddling him. Tyler had an odd expression on his face, but Duncan couldn't worry about that, not now, Not-Kinsey had one hand on his throat and the other flicking up a lighter, she was holding the flame to his collarbone until the flesh bubbled and blackened and he screamed so loud he thought his throat would tear...

 

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Mercifully, he lost consciousness after only the third or fourth demon had a turn with him. When he finally shuddered awake, it was fully dark, the foundry lit only by watery moonlight from the half-open door. Painfully, he began untangling his limbs from the snarled manacles.

 

"She called you 'uncle,'" came an abrupt voice from his right. Panting, Duncan scrambled up as best he could with an ankle still caught in a loop of chain, one hand pulling his bloodstained pants back up to his waist.

 

"Who's there?" he rasped, fighting not to let the panic take hold of him.

 

"Me," said Tyler, stepping into view. Duncan exhaled, relieved, but the expression on his nephew's face stopped him.

 

"She called you her uncle," Tyler said grimly. "That girl. You're Duncan, Rendall's little brother. If you're her uncle, she had to be Rendall's daughter. _Where is Rendall_?"

 

Duncan's breath caught. _Oh fuck. Too much of Erin, from too long ago. Fuck fuck fuck..._

 

"Where's Rendall?" Tyler asked again, his expression darkening. "Was that girl really his daughter? What's happened to him? How...how _old_ is he? How old are _you_?"

 

"That...that _was_ Rendall's daughter," Dunk forced out. "She's possessed. Your memories...might be a little out of date. Dodge hid most of them, so I returned what I could to you, until I could find the rest, and a couple of mine too, but..."

 

"How old are you?" Tyler asked again. Duncan swallowed.

 

"Twenty-nine," he said, conscious that the person he was talking to was more Erin than Tyler. "You lost a lot of time. I'm working on fixing that though. Please," he pleaded, "you have to trust me."

 

"Where's Rendall?" Tyler asked again, looking mutinous, and Duncan felt tears prick his eyes. Crying for his stupid brother now, with so much else going on...

 

"He's...he's dead," he finally managed to choke out. Ignoring Tyler's soft gasp, he went on, "One of Dodge's...agents...killed him. My brother died trying to protect his family, but Dodge won anyway, and now we're the last ones left who can do anything."

 

"That girl's his daughter," Tyler mused, "and she's possessed..."

 

"I'm trying to save her too," Duncan told him, back on firmer ground. "I'm trying to save everyone. She's my niece, I can't leave her here..."

 

There was a long, silent moment, and Duncan felt the tension drain from his shoulders when Tyler finally said, "All right. I think there's probably some things you haven't told me yet, but I don't think you're lying so far. If Rendall really is," he swallowed, "dead, then it's more important than ever that we stop Dodge. Or whatever it was that possessed him, that's in that kid now. I saw what it did to you," he went on, ignoring Duncan's shudder, "and I know you're working against them, so, I'll help you."

 

"Excellent," Duncan breathed. "First off, if you can find me a lantern..."


	3. Subterfuge

**_A/N:_ ** _It struck me as strange that Dodge said he'd have Duncan making keys until he starved to death at the forge. You can survive several weeks without food, but only three days or so without water, and you start to hallucinate and collapse after only 70 hours or so without sleep. Those would become problems much faster than lack of food would. I'm going to put it down to 'demons have only a hazy grasp of human anatomy/limits.'_

_The making of keys in this fic is based off my own knowledge of metal casting, gleaned from a few high school classes and the liberal application of Wikipedia. Casting from wooden molds is used, and casting from greensand molds and cores. I try to keep the descriptions pretty general, A) so that the story doesn't turn into a lecture on metalworking, and B) because it's been several years since I've used any of these techniques. If you have questions about any of the processes, feel free to leave it in the comments, and I'll link you to the sources I'm using._

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He worked feverishly all that night, bent over the block of wood, while Tyler stood guard. As the moon was disappearing, he finally declared himself satisfied, and the two of them met to talk over the plan one last time.

 

"You can't grab all of them," Duncan reminded him. "I just need a few extra, and most important, that that _thing_ not be in my head today. If you can grab any memory of a dark-haired woman and toss that in instead," he added, to Tyler's nod, "do it - it should look enough like a piece of demon, as long as No- as long as Dodge doesn't look too closely." He clutched the block of wood while they talked, and couldn't stop himself from glancing at it. If all went well, they'd have their own key in a few hours, one that would allow him to find Tyler's memories.

 

Ty carefully slipped the head key into the keyhole at the nape of his neck. There was the usual moment of disorientation, and then his mind returned. It wasn't by any means complete - he could feel the holes there, even if he no longer remembered what was meant to fill them - but he knew who he was, and he knew what his goal was, and he knew how to cast metal. That was enough to get started with. Duncan nodded, and Tyler slipped away, to learn what he could about what was going on beyond the walls of the foundry.

 

At Duncan's instructions, Ty had brought over all the tools he'd need that day, as well as a spare chunk of whispering iron. That was one of the riskier parts of an already fragmented and dangerous plan; Not-Bode guarded the whispering iron like a dragon with a hoard, there was always the danger that he'd notice one more fragment was missing than yesterday, even though Duncan shouldn't have been casting today, but it was a necessary chance. He had the mold ready, and he needed to get Tyler's memories back to him _soon_.

 

Duncan carefully laid out what he'd need, doing his best to keep his expression dazed and his movements mechanical, as they were when he had the thing in his head giving orders. Quietly though, he reveled in his comparative freedom. He just needed to escape Not-Bode's notice for one night, and then he'd have Tyler's mind back, and access to far more resources, hopefully enough to start laying real plans.

 

He set the fragment of iron in a small crucible, tucked deep in the furnace where it would, with any luck, be overlooked, and waited for it to melt. As he was standing there, another brain-emptied slave came in. No food today, but a bowl of water. It tasted like decay, but Duncan forced it down. God only knew when he'd be given more, and he had a reason to want to be alive now.

 

A couple of times, he'd been dehydrated enough that he couldn't stand or think past the aching migraine blurring his thoughts into mirages, even with the fragment of demon driving him on. When that happened, Not-Bode had forced water down his throat until he was nauseous, and put him back to work the minute he could stand. The demon had been slightly more cautious since then about keeping him in good shape, but it clearly had only the barest knowledge or interest in what it took to keep a human alive and healthy. It was after the first collapse, only two days into Not-Bode's reign, that the demon decided it might behoove him to keep his keysmith alive, and had started allowing Duncan water and sleep.

 

Physically, he was still in terrible shape, in the hands of a bunch of creatures that had only the vaguest idea of how much abuse a human body was designed to take, but mentally, he was beginning to bounce back. Hope, and at least a modicum of control over the contents of his head, had done wonders. The iron still whispered to him day and night, whether he was near it or not, telling him to take it, to _use_ it, to make keys that could overpower Not-Bode and anyone else who tried to hurt him. Duncan intended to listen, but _he_ would be the one to choose the forms it took.

 

The chunk of iron had melted nicely and was glowing in the heart of the crucible, he noticed with a soft flush of excitement...but then he frowned. Tyler had taken a small piece, one that Duncan hoped wouldn't be missed, but, he realized with a sinking feeling, it may have been _too_ small a piece.

 

That fragment he'd dropped yesterday, that the piece of demon had told him to leave...was it still there? Carefully, trying to muffle the clinking of the chains, Duncan bent and ran his fingers through the gravel. They sifted through quarter-sized chunks until he felt something colder than stone, sharp and smooth.

 

Success! Keeping half an eye on the door, he brushed the fragment off, and added it to the crucible. Hopefully it wouldn't ruin the tempering of the already melted piece.

 

He kept the wooden block hidden inside his gloves until the last possible moment. Not-Bode had allowed him to keep his pair of heavy leather foundry gloves, probably because he was useless if his hands were destroyed, but his leather apron and his tinted welder's mask were gone, and his chest and face were peppered with burns _\- souvenirs of metalworking without safety gear_ , he thought wryly as a spark stung his cheek. If he ever got back to his job and his class, he could turn that into a joke, about how this was why it was important to listen to your teacher... Finally though, both fragments of whispering iron had gone molten, and it was time to cast.

 

It required an iron will to take the Children of Leng's remains and turn it to your own purpose, but Duncan was game to the challenge; the weeks of horror and his fear for his family had forged his resolution into something equal to the demonic force, and the only direction the iron could tempt him in lay down the path he was already determined to follow. Safety for his family. An end to this nightmare. Power, not to keep or to wield over anyone else, but to ensure that this never happened again. Carefully, his hands shaking a little, he poured the key, the iron cherry-red as it settled into the mold, slowly charring the wood around it. And then there was nothing to do but wait, and go back to carving out the mold for the key Not-Bode wanted. He had to have something to show them, at the end of the day.

 

Not-Bode was furious at the slow accumulation of new keys, but, quietly, Duncan had noticed that with most of his memories gone and the piece of demon short-circuiting him every time he tried to think too hard, he had been working slower than he usually would be. Without the fragment of demonic will shaking him into spasms, he was able to work at a faster pace, even as exhausted as he was after two sleepless nights. Hopefully it would be enough to allay suspicion.

 

Two more people, demons or slaves, looked in on him, but Duncan kept his head down, carving mechanically, and they didn't bother him. He could feel the heat from the forge against his back beginning to dissipate. It was time, he decided, apprehensively picking up a small flathead screwdriver, to extract his key.

 

Holding his breath, he popped it out of the charred wood mold. It came out clean, and it was the work of only a few hours to clean it up and burnish it, his excitement growing through his fatigue with every smooth stroke of sand over metal. It had worked. It had actually worked. He'd outsmarted Not-Bode, they had a key of their own, they had a chance at this!

 

The key was clean, simple lines, as good as Duncan had been able to make it in a night and a half, armed with only some of his knowledge of carving and casting. It was small, only a little larger than a cabinet key or a Home Depot door key, terminating in a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. A seeking things key. Hopefully, a finding things key. Exuberant, Duncan spared the time to etch a tiny eye into each side of the magnifying glass terminal. It wasn't great etching, it would've earned him a high C or a low B in Mr. Sandusky's class, but he didn't care. It was the first step to getting the hell out of here!

 

And it had to stay hidden for now, he realized, his high spirits cooling. They were still deep in the woods, and no one could see him with this piece of treason, or his life wouldn't be worth the rags he wore. Gripping the key hard enough to indent skin, hidden in the palm of his hand, he glanced around for a hiding place. Pockets? No, too much chance one of the demons would notice. Couldn't hide it in the forge itself, too high a risk of it melting. It'd have to be the same as the wood block, he decided, and be buried in the gravel. The spent wooden mold was thrown in the forge to burn, the key was buried as deep as he could dig, and he sat down and began carving in earnest, the new wooden mold as much of a disguise as his carefully blank expression.

 

Duncan worked fervently for as long as the light lasted, then slowed as the square of light in the doorway dimmed, knowing Not-Bode would be here soon. He hadn't finished the mold. It would be maybe another hour of work in the morning until it was done. Slower than usual, for him, but not by much; hopefully Not-Bode would just think it was an off day?

 

He could see the demon child's glower as he stomped in, trailed by a couple of shadow wolves, several of his demons, and Tyler. This was the riskiest part, he knew, as he knelt obediently by the forge and allowed Ty to pull the wooden block and dremel tool out of his hands, was opening his head up and letting Not-Bode see the contents of his brain. If the demon spotted the fake, the forgery, he was screwed.  He felt the cool touch of iron and brass at the nape of his neck, and this was it, make or break...

 

He held his breath for as long as his mind remained...then the rest of his brain was back in his head, and Tyler was handing the key back to Not-Bode, and he allowed himself to exhale. They'd done it. Not-Bode had been fooled, or inattentive, and either way, they'd gotten away with it. Tyler stepped away with the jar that held his memories from the day, safe and secret, and he allowed himself a brief glow of victory.

 

That flame of triumph dimmed as Not-Bode kicked him sharply in the ribs, the toe of his shoe connecting with a red flare of pain. Duncan could see from his face that this was going to be _unpleasant_.

 

"Fucking useless," the demon child muttered. "Another day without a new key."

 

"I'm going as fast as I can," Duncan groaned, lying. "If you let me work nights too, maybe..."

 

"Oh no," the kid smiled, and his expression was horrible to see. "You're the most fun on this godforsaken rock, with your screwed-up brain and your pretty mouth. There'd be a mutiny if I tried to keep my family away from you completely, and who am I to deny them their fun?"

 

"God, no," Duncan gasped. "I'll keep working the forge, I'll finish the key, I'll have it done by dawn..."

 

"I don't think so," Not-Bode told him, one hand in his hair and twisting painfully. "See, I realized if I keep you making me keys all day and let my family fuck you into the ground at night, it keeps them happy, and it keeps you alive longer than working the forge continuously. It's not the best compromise, but that's being a leader," he shrugged, "is making all the hard choices. And speaking of _hard_..." the monster smirked, forcing his head back.

 

Tyler had gone. That was one of Duncan's few consolations as half a dozen of Not-Bode's monstrous family tore open his skin and bruised him down to the bone and choked him until the edges of his vision went violet, was that his nephew hadn't stuck around to see this. The other was the key, buried by the low brick of the forge, burning like a star in his mind even as the demon-possessed creatures cut him and used him while Not-Bode laughed, egging them on. This would end, it _had_ to end, and when it did, he could finally fight back...

 

At last, at last, it was over, and Duncan was left in a heap on the ground as the possessed _things_ sauntered out of the foundry, loudly bemoaning their exhaustion.

 

Cautiously, his cheek against the gravel, he began to count. _One. Two..._ When he reached fifty, he waited a moment longer, just to be sure, then dragged himself upright and began digging up the key, pushing aside loose gravel and grit. Time to see if this thing worked.

 

Tyler returned as he was brushing dust off the key, still carrying the jar of his memories. "I was worried they wouldn't leave," he commented quietly, setting the jar down on the edge of the forge. "Is it done? Is that it?"

 

"They always leave," Duncan told him. "Eventually. They might be back though, if they get bored, so we'll have to work quickly. If I can..."

 

He paused. He was chained in place, with no way to undo them ( _yet_ ), but he needed a cabinet or box of some sort, something he could lock, and it had to be him, Tyler wouldn't know enough yet to be able to search for his own memories...

 

"Could you bring one of the tool chests over here?" he asked finally. "Any of them...there, that blue one, on the far wall...thank you," he added, as Tyler heaved it over. The box was plate steel, about three feet tall, with several lower drawers and a single large, lifting top lid that could be locked. _Perfect_. Experimentally, Duncan held his new-forged key up to the lid, and smiled as the small, jagged keyhole changed to a wider and more ornate brass one that looked like it would be the perfect fit. _Strong magic_. Just as he now remembered. Magic that had colored most of his childhood. He slid the key in, and there was a soft _click_ as the tool chest locked. He unlocked it and withdrew the key, and the brass keyhole faded back to the ordinary die-cut one.

 

Okay. It worked in concept, time to try this for real. He locked it again, silently chanting, _head key, head key, head key, head key,_ and held his breath as he turned the key back, withdrew it, and lifted the lid.

 

Ho. Lee. Fuck. It worked! It actually worked! The small, sculpted brass and iron key was sitting there in the tool drawer, perfect and ready and oh god, he was going to get Tyler back...

 

He grabbed the head key, and closed the lid again, picturing a jar, like the one his memories were stuffed into during the day, but one full of memories of a burly, sad-looking teenager with light reddish-brown hair...

 

Carefully, he pulled the jar, exactly as he'd been picturing it, out of the tool box, cool glass cradled against his chest. "These are the rest of your memories," he told Tyler, who'd been watching silently, eyes wide. "If you'll let me, I'll put them back." Tyler hesitated for a long moment. Finally he nodded, and sat so that Duncan would be able to slip the key into the back of his neck. It was a risk, he knew, especially given just how thoroughly his mind had been fucked with before, but he...didn't exactly think this man was responsible for that. This was Rendall's little brother, and he was working against Dodge, and even if he wasn't exactly like the Duncan he remembered ( _seeing? being?_ ), trusting him...seemed like the best option right now.

 

Being as gentle as he could, Duncan opened Tyler's head up, and winced. The inside of his nephew's head looked like the aftermath of a fire, or a hurricane, a disaster photo smeared across the front page of the paper. Cautiously, he picked up the piece of demon that his memories and Erin's had managed to bind, and stuffed it into an empty jar.

 

"That's my head?" the phantom image of Tyler asked, leaning over his shoulder. Duncan nodded. "It looks like a fucking mess."

 

"Hopefully, not for long," Duncan told him, gently lifting his memories and Erin's out of Tyler's head. "These ones aren't yours." He was interested to see that there were still a very few of his nephew's memories left behind in his head. _Enough to keep him functioning?_ he wondered. Was that why his hair hadn't gone white, like Erin's, why Ty was still able to move around and follow orders?

 

Carefully, he poured the jar containing all of Tyler's memories and thoughts back into his head, a cascade of tiny figures as the ghost image of Tyler next to him flickered and vanished.

 

_Chaos, casting key and prom night and Dodge but not Dodge now Bode and shadows and shot and fear..._

 

"Uncle Dunk!" Tyler gasped, and felt Duncan's hand on his shoulder, bracing him as his memories settled back into place, his old mind reintegrating everything that had happened since that night. God, nightmares...nightmares gone walking...

 

"You're back?" Duncan asked him, voice hoarse, "you're...you're okay?" Tyler nodded, breathless.

 

"Oh thank god, Ty!" Duncan didn't hug him, but his grin was as wide as a jack o'lantern's, matching Tyler's own.  "Fucking Christ, you're back!"

 

His mind functioning for the first time in weeks, Tyler looked at his uncle.

 

Duncan was gaunt. He'd always been skinny, but now he was just emaciated, every bone in evidence under stretched-tight skin. His eyes were huge in his sunken face, his gingery hair was lank and tangled, and his pale skin was barely visible under the coating of smeared-on grime and half-healed bruises. Swallowing hard, Tyler could see thick welts, red with infection, rubbed raw along his wrists and neck and burns down his narrow chest.

 

"I'm back, and we've got a key of our own," Tyler replied, trying not to focus on just how shattered his uncle looked. "What did you design it to do?"

 

"It's a summoning key," Dunk told him with some pride. "It'll bring you anything you tell it to. Wanna try it?" he asked, and smiled at Tyler's eager nod. "Just like the mending cabinet - turn it in the lock, and picture what it is you want, then unlock it again. As long as you can picture it clearly, the key should bring it to you."

 

Tyler settled in front of the toolbox, key poised above the perfectly fitted keyhole that had appeared in it.

 

"What should I ask it to get?" he asked, and Dunk swallowed.

 

"Water, if you don't mind," he rasped. " _Clean_ water. Though I wouldn't turn down an actual shower either," he joked, and Tyler felt himself grinning so widely it felt like his mouth might split. Dragged through hell or not, Uncle Dunk was cracking jokes, he had his mind back, they weren't alone anymore, there was hope.

 

The cabinet clicked open, to reveal six bottles of Aquafina pure spring water, and Duncan chugged three of them without stopping for breath, throwing the empty plastic back into the toolbox when he'd finished. The bottles disappeared when Tyler used the key to call for sandwiches, and as they ate, they talked.

 

It was from Tyler that Duncan learned what had happened since prom night. While he'd been chained in the foundry, Not-Bode had sent his minions to smash the bridge out of Lovecraft and destroy all the boats they could find, and had been consolidating his rule of the island. There were still pockets of resistance - mostly teenagers, people young enough to recognize magic - but most of the town had fallen under the compulsion of the music box, or the eye of the Philosophoscope, or the relentless  strength of the Hercules key. He had stopped bringing more demons through the door by human hosts, had capped that after adding only ten or fifteen members to his family, but day by day, more people were killed, or had their minds stripped and emptied into jars.

 

"He hasn't tried to move past the town though," Tyler informed his uncle, brow furrowed in thought. "He's stayed here in Lovecraft. He's waiting for something."

 

"More keys." Duncan knew immediately. "He's waiting for me to finish making all the keys he wants, until he's completely unstoppable. Lovecraft is _practice_."

 

They wanted, badly, to continue their conversation, to reassure each other that they were both sane and alive and they would fight, but it was now the third night they hadn't slept, and both of them were stumblingly exhausted. Tyler insisted on keeping watch for the dawn while his uncle slept; he would have the chance to sneak away and sleep during the day, but Duncan was going to need to keep up the charade of being the shambling, puppet key-maker, and endure what came after the day's work had ended too.

 

Dunk fingered the summoning key as Tyler had slipped out of the foundry. He hesitated a moment, then pictured the key he'd seen Not-Bode pocket after they'd first clamped the manacles on him, small and silver and entirely ordinary. The summoning key brought it to him immediately, but when he turned it, the cuffs refused to open. He bit his lip. He'd been afraid of that. The fetters weren't just locked in place, but kept closed with magic as well, and if he wanted to get them off, he'd have to find a way of breaking or circumventing whatever spell Not-Bode had used.

 

_Probably so I couldn't just pick the lock or cut them off with a bolt-cutter or something_ , Duncan thought, giving up and sending the key back.  Regrettably intelligent of the demon; he'd been cautious about limiting Duncan's access to his tools during times when his mind was intact. He swallowed his disappointment like a lump of sawdust in his throat. He would've had to put them back on, of course, but even to escape the fucking clinking for a few minutes, to walk around the barn, walk at all, farther than three paces, would've been a gift. The shackles rubbed raw, infected rings around his wrists and neck and tethered him to the forge like a dog staked in the yard, painful and humiliating. He wanted them _gone_.

 

Nothing he could do about it tonight, unfortunately. Not yet. A bolt-cutter might be worth trying in the future, but for now, he needed sleep if he was going to keep his mind about him. Realistically, he knew that there wasn't much Tyler could do to help him, if the demons came back for him tonight. But all the same, he thought warmly, leaning back against the forge, it was kind of reassuring, to know that his nephew was back to himself and was nearby. To not be so completely alone.

 

It was the best night's sleep he'd gotten since this mess began.


End file.
